So, I’m “full of shit, and always have been”
according to choice words spoken by Oblivion,
I am busied with “feeling sorry for myself”
“throwing pity parties”, and inviting no one else
Damn, I guess this distant man is onto me
he caught me playing him and gaining NOTHING
in a flash, my character is bashed with bitter words
reaction to dissatisfaction best made by the immature
and, it’s by now so obvious how he’s dangling a string
and never stood a chance of accepting my complexities
sadly, it’s not too unusual in my own experience
my need to heal myself becomes a Monkey Wrench
and next thing I know, I’m every name but a nice one
because he couldn’t get me to crawl under his thumb
I’m obliged, to notarize my name to the realm of reality
I already have enough to sift through out of the debris
it’s just another case of the flip of the ol’ light switch
I’m just trying to get by, and I’m suddenly “full of shit”
it’s fine, if it soothes your mind to warp things conveniently
we can agree on one sure thing: that you have mistaken me.
acceptance
Mangled Truth. (Weekly Challenge July 5)
Weekly Challenge:
July 5 Alliteration (Assonance)
Write a poem in which all the words in each line begin with the same letter.
Ageless anxiety, angered and antagonised
by bullying bastards, bent backwards by
sensibility. Sly, self serving shallow servants slipping.
Lies, long lost. Left lacking. Lingering leads.
Truth’s traces tease. Tirelessly toxic together – they
wonder why whispering worriedly while
preaching paradoxical perfection! Pish Posh! Pass!
Dissentient. (Weekly Challenge July 5)
Weekly Challenge:
July 5 Alliteration (Assonance)
Write a poem in which all the words in each line begin with the same letter.
I initiated its immeasurable impositions, independently…
shiny-sheened smokescreens settling, slowly spreading…
for faded fractal figures, fastidiously fermented figments…
tediously tethered to the tyrant’s terrain…
drowning dread deeply, drained down dissentient…
laughing loudly, layered like Life loves Lady Liberty…
again and again, another atrocity’s appearance assaults…
bygone be bygone, beautiful blonde burden burn brightly.
I´m a writer?
I´m a writer?
so says my magic lighter….
my thoughts are sporadic
i act like am an addict
i feel like a nomadic
but i don´t panic
i do hate the static
i think is anti-climatic…..because I´m a writer?
Stay Frosty gents and gentesses.
Don’t Fall
Look at me, in a way
that makes me feel
like you have ripped
out my secrets and stored
the bloody
pieces in your
pockets, proudly
and with the intention
of making them yours too.
Touch me, in a way that
makes me lean in,
with out thinking.
That makes me inhale
you, like a dry mouthed
junkie. In withdrawal
after one hit. One drag.
One line. One time.
Kiss me, like your lips
belong to me. A sticky
dragging of skin,
and tongues that
tell a story of want.
Bury your
hands in my hair and
arch my neck back,
baring it,
for your hot breathed
inspection.
Smile at me, like you
understand every dark
corner of my soul, like
you want to go there with me.
Hold my hand,
and then let it go.
Show me.
You don’t need me.
You see me,
and you want me.
But…
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Envy Not
Do not be so quick to envy
my sharp tongue and my
fearless hands.
Destroying the smile
of another with intent,
is my own crippling band;
that chokes me. Bruises me.
Not because of guilt, and not because of
shame. But because it leaves me
bitter and abandoned in the
hollows of my veins.
Destruction is a opiate, for
the anger that resides.
The gnarly twisted cruelty
that hides behind green eyes.
I am no advocate for the weak.
Nor am I inspired by the meek,
But I am;
by definition –
the kiss on your demon’s cheek.
The Art, in Breaking Hearts
I bled, bright red
today.
I gripped the wound,
and the warmth
of the blood that pulsed
past my fingers and
ran across my breasts
onto the floor,
was a vivid
reminder.
I never was in control.
I was merely caught
off guard, and propelled
into a motion, not unlike
a speeding train.
Or falling plane.
No emergency brakes, when
it is actually an emergency.
No warning signs, seat belts.
helmets or knee pads.
No fucking parachutes.
Just the stomach churning slam,
and the knowledge that when you
open your eyes again,
nothing will be the same.
Not ever again.
Weekly Challenge May4 – Duets – “Hell’s Hand Satchels”
Written by Mockingbird Down and Americana Injustica
“Why do we sit at this table, my Friend?
in the back of the bar behind the pirate’s curtain,
I believe that we somehow have each been,
on separate paths to the same trouble, again;
these kinds of places mean only one thing,
the scars on our faces are rather telling,
now let’s drink and divulge in our comradery,
but, why is it that your hands are trembling?”“Don’t sip so fast, my dear. My hands only
tremble because of the quieted rage I have grabbing
at my chest. Can you see them, love?
The demons of the bastards and the whores as they
laugh and squeal in time to each others bleating?
I have brought us here, for clear and precise reasons,
and your scars will only serve you well by the time
the reckoning has begun. It is a very beautiful night.”“Aye – you’re right; what a perfected, star-filled sky,
epochs in time, they still shine – a shrine to you and I,
a luminary mapping of the vengeance in your eyes,
a twinkling mirror image of the bastards that must die;
Now sit back and let your chains down, my friend,
indulge in the strength of our unity, once again,
we both know how it goes: it’s us against them,
in an infinite war for the Hell that we find comfort in.”“You speak truth. I have grown weary of these chains
and the weight they add to my steps. My shoulders have
become accustomed to carrying burden of injustice; Hell’s
hand satchels; filled with the names of the hunted horsemen
who failed to do what we must do. But – I share this load with you;
my kin both in the infected shadows, and in the guileful light.
Intoxication it is, my friend, both of the mind and of the body.
Tonight we watch the stars unfold, and light the way for morning.”
Nod if you Understand
Listless,
Restless,
Benign and numb.
Heavy hearted.
Detached.
Unlatched.
Falling.
Resisting.
Insisting,
on enlisting
every emotion
already in motion,
to paint pictures.
Join the dots
On what I have lost.
Or, what I gave up.
Say something.
Moan.
Groan, anything
to show me
that this
isnt
permanent.
Chasing Demons
It is more convoluted, than just
a throbbing demand for blood.
It is more labyrinthine than simply
knowing that I will stand, bloody faced
and victorious, heart pounding against
my rib cage. A reminder that the trophy blood
that drips from my hands, is not mine.
It belongs to one of the demons that has tracked me
for too many years, lurking. In that few seconds before
day becomes night, waiting relentlessly to swallow
whole the rare moments when I am able to
fall asleep with out first having to run my fingers
along the blades hidden beneath my bed,
just to comfort my mind before close my eyes.
The corpse, black and burnt, will not stand again.
But there are more where this one came from.
Its more complicated than positive talk and
encouragement. Its more complicated than
a patronizing pat on the back, telling me that
everything will…
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Beasts of Articulation 